He was there, a young dog in the manger that silent night when Jesus was borne. No one even noticed him, standing so quietly, his faithful vigil from the back of the tiny stable, but he was there, watching over the tiny baby.

He was there that holy night, when the three wise men came to pay their homage. Though he never barked even one single woof, being ever so careful not to wake the sleeping baby, for he was wise and kind himself.

It was he, recognizing the travelers as friends, who without protest, gave his place next to the tiny baby that glorious night, that strangers from afar might honor our Dear Saviors birth. In fact, so quite was he, that he was never even mentioned in the famous stories of that holy night, but he was there.

He was there, following close behind, as Jesus grew from a baby to a young boy. Walked close, as he played in the dirt streets of that ancient town. Stood by his side, defended him when older boys taunted the quiet young Jesus, protecting, guarding him until he was old enough to speak for himself. So common a sight were the two of them, that no one even bothered to learn his name, but he was there.

He was and old dog when Jesus first left his home, to old to accompany him on his search for the wisdom that would grace his life. So he waited, spent many long hours watching from the doorway of the humble home, patiently longing for his master's return.

He was an ancient dog, dying a quiet death, unnoticed even by neighbors in the tiny town, that cold dark night. Mary had tried her best to make him comfortable, she knew he was dying, his labored breath coming slowly, unevenly. She thought he might have gone a day or two before, but he seemed to be waiting for something, she knew not what.

It was past midnight when the door to the tiny house blew open, the snow scampering in, settled silently on the cold earthen floor, there, in the dim glow of an ancient lamp stood Jesus, wrapped in a blanket to protect him from the cold and blustering wind. Only stopping to kiss his mother Mary, he went straight to the side of the dying dog, and without a word, lifted him up, wrapped him in his arms.

So great was his joy on his masters returned, that the old dog managed to open his eyes one last time. Managed a wag of his old bushy tail. Managed to lick his masters hand one last time, while Jesus stroked his soft head. The old dog passed quietly away that night, held tightly in his master's arms.

We never knew his name, but he was there, faithful to the last. And now you know why it is said to this day, when a dog passes on, if you look close enough, you might catch a glimpse of a stranger, still wrapped in a blanket, kneeling beside the fallen hero. Still others say if you listen hard enough, you might hear the faint song of angels whispered on the gentle breeze, singing their song of joy, come to celebrate a loving dog home again.

Your home may have been the first kind one I'd ever seen;
Your voice the first to teach, to praise, to guide me through confusing days.
You're the one who taught me what the life of a good dog ought to be.
Your patient persistence all the while may have won my very first doggie smile.

And now that I am off to roam with the family of my "forever" home,
Yours is the home I will always dream of; your gentle hands, your smiling love,
The way you coaxed tangles out of my coat, the sound of your voice; yes, every note.

If they learn to love me the way that you do I will know that I owe my acceptance to you.
Though my paws may wander far away, yours is the home where I learned to stay.